Coming Back Stronger

by Drew Brees

  A lot of coaches would come in and tell you to listen up while they spelled out the offensive scheme—a “my way or the highway” approach. But Sean was different. He wanted me to be part of the process; he valued my input. Nobody had ever given me that opportunity before. No coach had ever expressed so much belief in me—really a blind faith at this point. This was the first time we had shaken hands with each other. I was blown away.

  Meanwhile, Brittany was being entertained by Doug Marrone, the offensive coordinator, although I don’t know who was entertaining whom because I’m sure Brittany was doing most of the talking. They ate peanut butter pretzels and talked while watching film. It was right up Brittany’s alley—very relaxed and informal. Doug’s wife, Helen, would end up being one of Brittany’s closest friends in the Saints family.

  Later, as we drove around to look at neighborhoods, they tried to help me overcome my misconception that the entire city was uninhabitable. The coaches all lived in different areas, and we drove to a development called English Turn and then to Uptown. We immediately fell in love with the Uptown area. There was a big, beautiful park and lots of historic homes with wraparound porches, plus Loyola and Tulane universities and the world-renowned St. Charles Avenue. After the devastation we had seen on the flight in, I was surprised to find these areas in such good shape.

  Then we drove to the North Shore, where Sean Payton’s home was being built. As beautiful as it was, I knew we couldn’t live in that area—the bridge across Lake Pontchartrain is twenty-four miles long! I was sure I would fall asleep making the forty-five-minute drive back and forth to the facility every day. But still, I was starting to think this might not be such a bad place to live after all.

  It was on the way back I was about to see a different side of New Orleans.

  Lost . . . and Found

  Brittany and I were in the car with Sean having a great conversation. We got off the bridge, and he took an exit into New Orleans proper. I had no idea where we were, but he seemed confident that he did. We were headed back to the facility, where I would be talking with Tom Benson, the owner, as well as Mickey Loomis. Then they were taking us to the airport to catch our flight to Miami. By that point we’d seen everything in New Orleans, it seemed, except the hurricane damage.

  Sean was driving and talking, looking at street signs, and it seemed to be taking quite a while to get back. It wasn’t a big deal because we had some time to spare. I relaxed and just took in the scenery. But gradually that scenery started taking a turn for the worse. We drove into neighborhoods where the houses were off their foundations. There were boats in yards and cars halfway into living rooms. It was unbelievable. We’d seen images like these on the news months earlier, but no amount of TV can prepare you for the reality of seeing it with your own eyes.

  I looked back at Brittany, and she was just as sobered as I was. (She had gone from almost falling asleep to wearing a look of pure shock.) Both of us glanced at Sean, who was trying to play it cool. We didn’t realize it at the time, but he had no idea where we were. We were making our way through Metairie and Lakeview, two areas that were hit really hard by Katrina. Later I took friends to this area to see the devastation and the progress—or the lack thereof. There’s no way words can describe the scope of the wreckage we saw that day.

  Sean finally pulled out his phone and called Mickey Loomis. He tried to be discreet, but we heard him ask Mickey where we were and how to get back to the facility. He was really embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m new here too. I’ve only been in town a month and a half.”

  We wound our way through those neighborhoods for about forty-five minutes. At first we were just taking it all in—there was so much to process. We saw the giant X’s spray-painted on doors where the police and National Guard had checked homes for bodies, noting the number of survivors—and victims—they had found. Yards were cluttered with debris, broken windows, and overturned cars. Some houses were gone altogether, with nothing left but a slab of concrete. The people who had lived in those homes were now scattered to the wind.

  There’s something you learn quickly about New Orleans when you visit: people there have a clear sense of home. Many families have lived in New Orleans for countless generations. They will never leave, and they don’t want to go anywhere else. They love life. They love living here. But a huge part of the population had been lost. Displaced.

  There was a moment when we were driving, trying to find our way back to the facility, when I felt myself going into information overload. During the first part of the visit, I was focused exclusively on meeting Sean and the other coaches, talking to the owner and the general manager, discussing the offense. I had thought about where we might live and about the future of the club. All that was swirling in my brain when suddenly I was hit with a dose of reality. All that devastation really put things in perspective for me. By the time we reached the facility, I honestly felt like I needed to lie down.

  I quickly met with Mickey and Mr. Benson, and then it was off to the airport. We were an hour behind schedule already, and I could sense that Mickey wanted to do everything in his power to prevent me from getting on that plane. You see, typically on a recruiting visit, the last stop is where a player signs. Mickey figured if I got on that plane, I was never coming back. But I had given my word that I would make the trip to Miami before I made any decisions. I needed perspective, but more than anything, I needed time to let what I had seen in New Orleans sink in. It was heavy stuff, and I needed to find a way to compartmentalize it for a while so I could give my attention to the opportunity in Miami.

  The Dolphins picked us up in owner Wayne Huizenga’s customized 747. It was huge and impressive. They had flown in several coaches and their wives for the flight back to Miami. We immediately started talking team and offensive philosophy and all the other pertinent details of Dolphins football.

  Wayne Huizenga, Nick Saban, the other coaches, and their wives took us to dinner that night, and we had a very nice time. At the outset, our visit looked a lot like what we’d received in New Orleans. However, that was about to change. When I woke up the next morning, the first thing planned was an appointment with the Dolphins team doctor at his office. There they required me to go through extensive physicals on my shoulder. They hadn’t prepared me for this, and my agent had no idea it was coming either. But I had nothing to hide, so I agreed to let them examine me all they wanted.

  I saw a neurologist to determine if I had any nerve damage. He stuck a bunch of big needles in my arm and tried to make sure that my nerve endings were firing properly and that I was going to get all the feeling back from the top of my shoulder down to my fingertips. I was only two months out of surgery at this point, and I wondered what Dr. Andrews would say about this. I was fairly certain he wouldn’t like all the prodding and poking on my still-sensitive shoulder, and I was concerned this could potentially set us back from the progress we’d made.

  Then they did an MRI with contrast, where I was injected with a solution that shows more detail than a normal MRI would. It was a two-hour process—and quite painful. After the injection, which caused my arm to swell, I had to lie in the MRI tube. I’m not claustrophobic, but after a while you start wondering if you’ll ever make it out of there.

  I literally spent six hours with various medical staff, trying to convince them that I was going to come back okay. Most of my time in Miami was consumed by people jerking, poking, and prodding me in different ways. I felt like I was at a cattle show—or, at the very least, at the draft combine again. And all through the process, from the moment I stepped on the plane until we drove back to the airport, I got the feeling that the Dolphins were looking at me with a sense of doubt. Was I supposed to be selling myself to them? It sure felt like it.

  Sure, they had everything in place in Miami. They had top-notch coaches. They looked like they were headed in the right direction as an organization. South Florida was a gorgeous place to live, a wonderful place to raise a family. There were so many
pluses to the equation, but I couldn’t shake the sense that they doubted me. It almost felt like I’d be stepping into the same situation I had just exited in San Diego.

  The responses to my rehab highlight reel seemed to illustrate the striking difference between the two organizations. I had a DVD Dr. Andrews had made of the actual surgery and a DVD that offered a detailed look at all I’d been doing in my rehab and how I was improving. I gave them to both teams when we met. At the time I was three weeks ahead of schedule and proud of the accomplishments I’d made so far. I wanted them to look me in the eye and see how serious I was about making a complete comeback. I wanted to show them I was on my way to coming back stronger.

  In New Orleans I got a nod, a pat on the back, and the feeling That’s what we like to hear. They communicated warmth, encouragement, and confidence.

  In Miami they took the DVD and shrugged. Okay, we’ll see. I felt like I had a hole I needed to dig myself out of right from the beginning. The vibe I was getting from them was doubt and mistrust. You should feel lucky we’re considering you.

  Brittany and I returned to Birmingham utterly exhausted. We had been up late in New Orleans and in Miami. Plus it had been an emotionally taxing few days. But as tired as we were, that first night back we stayed up and talked, just like we had the night of our first date. We had a lot of the same reactions about what we’d seen. If leaving New Orleans had been information and emotion overload, leaving Miami was pure frustration. I was so disappointed. I had been hoping for so much more from Miami. But as Brittany and I reflected on all that had happened in the past week, we had to admit there was something special about New Orleans. At one point we sat on the bed and just stared at each other. The revelation seemed to hit us at the same time. We couldn’t quite explain it, but it was almost like New Orleans was calling to us. We prayed together that night as we do every night, and we asked God to continue to show us what direction we should go and allow us to sense his purpose.

  Miami had seemed to be such an obvious choice. We hadn’t been expecting this, and we certainly weren’t looking for it. But we couldn’t ignore the irresistible feeling—a sense of spiritual calling, even—that God wanted us in New Orleans. Maybe it was because we could approach the city from a different angle than perhaps anybody else. Where some people might look at the city and see disaster, we saw opportunity. Where some people might be deterred by the devastation, we were drawn to it. We saw the adversity as a chance to build something special from the ground up. Before the hurricane, New Orleans had had its fair share of problems, just like every major city does. Up to that point most of those problems had been ignored, accepted as the norm, or patched with duct tape for the time being. After Katrina, the city now had a clean slate, an opportunity to start over and rebuild the right way. This was a chance to fill in the voids that had been missing for some time now, in everything from politics to crime to the education system to infrastructure. What if God wanted us in New Orleans for such a time as this?

  Am I being called to New Orleans? Pastors and missionaries might get a calling from God to do something . . . but football players? Do they get that kind of tug from the Almighty?

  I wasn’t sure, but I was about to find out where I wasn’t being called.

  The Call

  The night we arrived back in Birmingham, I talked with Tom, my agent. When I told him about what I’d seen in New Orleans, I felt like a young Marine who had just witnessed his first day of combat. I still needed to process a lot of what I’d seen and felt while I was there. But Tom could already tell which direction I was leaning.

  The money was almost identical from both teams, so that really wasn’t a huge factor. New Orleans was ready to sign a deal if I wanted it. The Dolphins were studying the MRI and the physicals I had been through while I was in Miami. I was confident the results would come back great and perhaps I’d get some of the affirmation I’d been hoping for during my visit. My heart was definitely being tugged toward New Orleans, but I hadn’t closed the door on the possibility of Miami at that point. The decision was coming down to this: What organization do I want to be part of? What city do I want to call home? What community will Brittany and I raise our future children in? Who really believes in me?

  Tom had a different take on Miami’s approach. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “Here’s what’s going to happen: Miami will call tomorrow. They’re going to say that the physical didn’t turn out as well as they had hoped. They’re going to threaten to pull the offer.”

  “You know this?”

  “Not only do I know it, but I can pretty much guarantee it.”

  Sure enough, the next day the phone rang. It was Miami. They gave Tom the runaround about the deal and said there were problems with my physical. Tom had nailed it.

  As the discussion continued with Miami, I kept feeling this steady pull toward New Orleans. The calling didn’t hit me all at once—it was more like a progression of realizing how God was directing us. In some ways, it paralleled my experience with Brittany at Purdue. I continued to see her over and over after our first encounter on my twentieth birthday. It was like God kept allowing our paths to cross. I couldn’t forget about her. Now I had to wonder if it wasn’t just a mistake that we took that wrong turn and saw those sights in New Orleans. I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that maybe I belonged in New Orleans, that God was opening doors there for a purpose.

  I didn’t understand it all, I didn’t have it figured out, but I knew in my gut that there was an opportunity presenting itself. I was trying to rebuild my shoulder and my career, the organization was rebuilding its reputation and reestablishing itself, and the city was restoring not only the homes but also the lives of its people. Why not do this together and lean on each other in the process? We were all going through the same struggles and battling the same doubts. The vision was starting to crystallize as Brittany and I weighed both sides.

  What I kept coming back to when I processed all the issues was the fact that the Saints wanted me. That was what I’d struggled with over the past five years with the Chargers. I didn’t have their respect. I hadn’t felt supported or fully appreciated. But here was a community and an organization welcoming me with open arms, saying that I was their guy. They wanted me to be part of their team. They thought I could come back and play as well as, if not better than, before. They believed in me.

  I called Tom Condon, and we discussed the options some more. “It sounds like you want to do the deal with New Orleans,” he said. “You want me to get it done now?”

  “I do, but I have to make one call first.”

  This probably seemed pretty odd to Tom, but he knows me well enough to understand what I was about to do.

  Before I made my final decision, I had to know where Miami stood. I had heard what they’d told my agent. But that could have been a bargaining strategy. What was going through Nick Saban’s brain in Miami? Would he pick up the phone and say, “I don’t care what the doctors say—you’re a winner, and we want you here”? In my heart I needed to know exactly how Saban was feeling. Then, when I walked away from this, I’d have closure. I wanted to have that measure of peace with my decision, leaving nothing to chance. This way I’d never have to look back and wonder what might have been.

  I hung up and dialed Nick’s office. His secretary answered, and my call was directed to his office.

  “Coach, it’s Drew Brees. I had a conversation with my agent, and I have a question for you.”

  “Sure, Drew.”

  Deep breath. “I heard that my medical reports came back and your doctors didn’t like what they saw.”

  “Right. Well, you know, our doctors have given you a 25 percent chance of coming back and playing. I don’t know what else to trust or look at other than what our medical people tell us. They’re professionals, and they know what they’re doing and how to interpret those tests. We’d still love to have you, but . . . that number we talked about earlier might have to change.”

&
nbsp; I understood that he was in a tough spot. He was facing the restrictions of their salary cap while still trying to put together a championship team. The doctors had given him the reports, and he had to trust them.

  “You have to understand our situation. If we sign you for this amount of money and all of a sudden you can’t play, it puts us in a really difficult position down the road. That’s a lot of money going to a guy who’s not contributing to the team. And then I won’t be able to pay other players to fill that void.”

  Another breath. “Coach, I know what your doctors believe about me. My question is, what do you believe? Do you believe that I can come back and be better than I was before and lead your team to a championship?”

  I already knew how New Orleans had answered that question. Now I needed to hear what Miami had to say.

  Nick Saban paused.

  That was really all I needed to hear. His pause told me everything.

  “Well, Drew,” he said, “I would still love to have you, but I have to trust what our medical people are saying. . . .”

  He went on from there, basically repeating what he had said before, like he was reading from a script. But I was starting to tune out. By then I had all the information I needed. I had made my decision. Now the only question was how I was going to deliver it.

  When Nick finished, I said, “You know what, Coach Saban, thank you very much for your time. I appreciate your interest. I appreciate the visit and the invitation to come down there. I’m going to New Orleans.”

  Click.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to do that. In the world of negotiating, that type of reveal is verboten for someone in my position. I knew the organization was trying to get me for as little money as possible. They thought they had me. Now I’d flat out told them I was going to New Orleans. But in that moment I couldn’t resist the honest disclosure.